My car (it’s a Honda Element) is awesome. Really, I love it. First of all, it’s orange. And the ceiling is high so I can stand up in the back to buckle my kids in. The interior is made entirely of rubber and plastic which means if I wanted to, I could unleash a hose into it. Just think about that for a second. Unleashing the power of a hose inside of a car.

Hawt, right?

I haven’t mustered up the balls to do it yet. But I should. Because my car is disgusting.

And…I blame my kids.

Especially for all the empty Starbucks cups and sleeves. My 3 and 5 year olds are totally addicted to coffee. And chai. And…er…green tea lattes. And vanilla rooibus lattes. And cafe mochas…

(Ok, ok. That’s all mine. It’s a medical condition. You know. The one where I NEEEEEEED caffeine. You have it to, right?)

But the empty organic chocolate milk boxes? The crappy, useless, little paper bags that once held tiny chocolate donuts or vanilla bean scones? The snotty, balled up 100% recycled brown paper napkins? Yeah. That’s all them.

The seventy stuffed animals that have found their way into my car but not out? Also them.

The five years worth of crumbs, raisins, beach sand, and unidentifiable, sticky sludge that’s hidden (and not hidden) in the crevices between where the baby car seats and the actual car seats meet? Not me. Them.

If I wasn’t hauling 16 bags in and out of the car every time we get in and out of the car, it’d probably be much cleaner. It’d be cleaner as well if I just invested in one of those shitty little “car trash cans.” Or, a dustbuster. But I won’t. ‘Cause I like to live in the shit.

The grit makes my life feel more urban. And also, I’m certifiably insane. I mean busy.

Please stop laughing at me.

Now.

Welcome to the half hour before bed time. Let me introduce the combatants for this evening’s matchup: in this corner, weighing in at 55 and 40 pounds respectively, we have the tag team of the century: masters-of-disasters, mess-makers-extraordinaire, extreme emotion inducing, love/hate brother-sister combo: Emma and Ryan! In the other corner, weighing in at … well, we don’t know, we’re avoiding the scale in the post-Thanksgiving week … we have the boss, the big mama, the enforcer of rules and keeper of the keys (and checkbook): Mom!

Your nightly bout, should you choose to accept (and lets face it mom, you don’t really have a choice): wrangle this dynamic duo through the nightly gauntlet of required duties without losing your sh*t.

First up: The Home Run. While seemingly one of the easiest parts of the day – or at least the one that gets looked forward to the most – the terrible twosome has turned the post-school/work reunion into a never-ending stream of paperwork from school folders, begging to play across the street or watch TV and an impressive array of tactics to get out of nightly homework. Once you complete the task of getting 8-year old Emma down to master her multiplication tables, you must turn your attention to 5-year old Ryan as he makes every attempt to pester, bother and irritate Emma in the midst of her studying. Good luck with that.

Round 2: What’s for Dinner? (Where is it written that I have to feed them EVERY SINGLE night? Oh yeah, it came with their instruction manuals.) The amount of time, energy and brainpower I expend thinking about food, preparation, modification for orthodontia, taking into account individual tastes and required nutrition (in our house, pizza doesn’t cut it as a vegetable) I could likely get a really good start a really good start on that whole peace-in-the-Middle-East thing.

Dinner seamlessly transitions into Round 3: Next Day Prep. Okay mom—have you read every email from the school, the preschool teacher, the PTA and the booster organization? Do you know that the $5 fee for the field trip is due? (oh, who are we kidding? It was due last week…) Book orders must be submitted by Friday? Homework must be corrected and put back in the folder? Is the soccer uniform/swim team stuff/ballet leotard clean and ready for the next day’s use?

If you’ve had your back against the ropes for the first three rounds, you have a chance to redeem yourself with a stunning comeback and channel a little Ali in the Jungle. Ready, set, match!

We’ve saved the best for the last and final round: Bedtime. If you can accomplish the following in 30 minutes or less, you could be declared winner by the shear feat of technical time management: shower two kids, get them to brush their teeth, turn Emma’s expander with the key, make sure the humidifier is filled, get drinks, put eczema medicine on Ryan (the poor kid’s legs look like hamburger despite everything you and the dermatologist throw at it), and make sure the stuffed lovvies are where they ought to be. Bonus points if you were able to do it in time to read a book to them for 15 minutes.

Your match may or may not involve a Round 5 — which involves the extra steps of returning wayward children to their beds with a drink of water, settling a post-bedtime dispute (while simultaneously folding laundry) or soothing a frightened child after a bad dream.

And at the end of the day, when you’ve collapsed in a chair to watch a smidgen of TV that doesn’t involve an animated character or read a book, you can take stock, secure in the knowledge that you’ll get another chance to reclaim (or defend) your title the very next day.

My three year old woke up soaking wet in the middle of the night last night. Twice. Ok, the first time it was only 9:45. But I’d been asleep for a good half hour there. Only to wake up to a little voice whining, “Mommy, I’m wet! I’m wet! My pjs! Mommy!” I changed my little man, changed his linens, made him try to pee in the potty and sent him on his way.

The instant replay was at 2 a.m.

Waking up this morning at 6 was. a. bitch.

BUT…we had big plans for today. We were going to go green and take the train down to the Aquarium. See how fun that is? A morning dedicated entirely to trains and fish? I know. I am Super Mom. So after I gave it to those damned kids for waking me up so friggin’ early, I had my coffee, gathered the necessary myriad supplies, and we were off.

But…I had to park illegally. Because we were about to miss the train. We practically raced it to the platform.

On the train, we had a lovely time, reading books, looking out the window, eating pretzels and drinking water. Until, my three year old began convincing me that no, he hadn’t peed in his pants. It was…the rain. That wet his Thomas underwear. Right in front of his penis.

Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.

We got off the train, 30 minutes later and went directly to the bathroom. By then the rain had stopped and the dawdling was in full swing. My guys milked that 10 minute walk from the station to the Aquarium for 25. My three year old is a slow walker. Especially when holding an umbrella.

We hung around the Aquarium for about 40 minutes. At which time I realized that if we didn’t have lunch RIGHT NOW we’d miss our train back home. And the trains conveniently run every hour. So I dragged 30 pounds of kid in one hand and 50 pounds of kid in the other from the awesome Surinam toad exhibit to the cafeteria. Where I forced those children to scarf down hot dogs and fries. And my kids are all laughing and joking with each other. While I’m sweating, cursing under my breath and checking my watch every six seconds. Because if we miss this train, there will be no nap time. And that CANNOT happen.

So, we race back to the train station. The 10 minute walk is 7 minutes this time because I half carry, half race my three year old the whole way. As we arrive at the platform, we hear last call for our train. We run down track 3 to catch it. But our train is on track 1. So we run all the way around to track 1. My hair is crazy-looking and sweat is pouring off my face. My three year old’s shoe has fallen off, and my five year old is so far ahead at this point that I see the conductor asking him where he’s headed.

See the fun, people?

Finally, we get on the train. I throw the kids onto a bench. We down some water. We read some books. The ticket agent gives each my kids a quarter for being cute. And we make it back home in time to grab some ice cream.

Thank Gawd I rushed. I mean really. Stress-free fun? No such thing.

I was told recently by one of my children that I was embarrassing them.  I knew it would happen eventually.  That, at one point, my actions (no matter how innocent) would cause my children mental and social anguish.  That they wouldn’t want me to talk to them in front of their friends in case I would reveal that I – or God forbid, they – were somehow uncool.  I was totally prepared for that.

But I wasn’t prepared for it coming from my 5-year old.

On a recent jaunt to drop him off to his regular preschool, we pulled up a bit late.  His classmates were all arrayed outside the building in a nice, straight “choo-choo line” waiting for one of their teachers to lead them into the classroom.  As we ran up, I signed him in and bent down to give him a kiss.

“No kisses, Mama!” he said, leaning away from me.  “No kisses!  Too embarrassing!”

Wait… what?!?!

I thought I had prepared myself for that moment.  But in my head, I suppose I had been practicing that moment for Emma to start giving me the “Mom, drop me off at the corner” business.  Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think that I’d hear the ‘you’re embarrassing me’ speech from my little boy first.

I know that he was probably just imitating something he saw on TV.  He didn’t really mean it — and even if he did, I wasn’t nearly ready to lose this battle.  Not this early.  So I looked him square in the eye and told him:

“You are too young for this ‘no kisses’ bit, mister!”  And I proceeded to smother his face with kisses and give him a few good tickles while I was at it.  And while his preschool friends looked on and laughed, too.

He giggled, and said, “I was just kidding, Mama.  You’re silly!” and he ran off to go play with paint and play-doh.

Whew.

But I know the clock is ticking down the time until I hear the “Mom, you’re embarrassing me!” thing for real.  Until then, it’s kisses all around.

This morning, I woke up irrationally angry. It was 5:45am. And my three year old was screaming and crying and throwing his body around and yelling, “I WANT TO WAKE UP! I WANT TO WAKE UP!” because I’d stupidly told him to go back to bed. Did I mention it was 5:45am? (Better than 5, but still…)

He clearly wasn’t going back to bed. So, I sort of yelled a bit myself. “EITHER STOP CRYING OR GO BACK TO SLEEP!” As if I were offering him actual options, right? I mean, screaming and crying is way more fun than sleeping.

Right?

Who wouldn’t want to jump out of bed at the ass crack of dawn on a day they could conceivably sleep until noon?

Oh, wait. Kids don’t learn that til college or something.

I was so irrationally angry about waking up early to the sound of my child’s crazed tantrumming, that after yelling that ridiculous ultimatum, I actually punched a door. With my fist.

Be afraid, people. Be very afraid. This is what happens to me when I don’t get my required 8+ hours of sleep a night.

For like 6 years straight.

I wish I were one of those psycho-geniuses who operate optimally on 4 hours of sleep. (Yeah, I’m totally calling Thomas Edison a psycho-genius. You wanna piece of me?) But, alas. I’m not. And going to bed at 9pm seems, well, scandalous, when there’s a perfectly good Twilight book taunting me from the bedside table.

Don’t worry. My three year wasn’t freaked out in the least. He laughed at me, in fact. Yes, my punch was that inadequate that it made a three year old laugh. This experience taught me that I could not possibly defend myself against a bad guy if the need arose. On the flip side, my hand is totally ok.

Admittedly, punching doors before sunrise seems like a warning sign. Of something. I’m not sure what. I let you know more after I sleep on it.

At some point.

I saw an acquaintance at the dry cleaner’s the other day. I haven’t seen her in awhile, and I waved. She just bustled right over and grabbed my hand. “Oh, you are so funny!” I looked around to make sure she was talking to me, and sure enough, we were the only two people in the establishment. I gave her a questioning look. “Oh, I read your blog. You know, the one about your husband? (They are all, in one way or another, about my husband)” To be polite, I thanked her.

“So how do you do it?” She asked.

“What?”

“Write those funny things!”

I couldn’t answer. I have no idea how I write funny things. As a matter of fact, some of the things that I write don’t really seem that funny when I write them. I gave her a somewhat pat little answer: “Oh, well, you know, my family is hilarious, and I just take it all down.” But that got me thinking.

Funny people are one thing. Funny people can tell jokes, entertain people at parties with witty remarks and repartee. Funny people remember punch lines and can do foreign accents with ease. Funny people have good timing, and know just how long to wait before zinging listeners with a great one liner.

Funny writers are completely different. Well, at least I am. I think of the absolute best one liner—unfortunately, I think of it two days after party is over. I have one absolutely favorite joke that involves a guy who wants to be a newscaster, aspirins, and condoms, but although I know it is absolutely rip-roaringly funny, I can never put all the pieces together to tell it. When I tell it, there is a guy who wants to be on the news, and he has condoms in all his pockets. I have stopped trying to tell this joke.

So when people say things about how funny I am, I get nervous. I feel a “funny demand” coming, and I know I am not going to live up to it. My husband is the worst offender. He starts out (after a glass of wine) with a very vague reference to something:

“Oh, yeah. Last week. Tell them, Molly!”

Ok, last week…nothing comes to mind. By this time, my husband is doubling over with laughter, weakly gesturing in my direction.

“It was hilarious! Tell them, Molly!”

By the time I figure out what he is referring to, the moment has passed, the audience is bored, and everyone wonders if I have a ghost writer for my columns.

Are there training camps for humor writers who yearn to be funny in person? I need to go to one. I imagine it might have an agenda something like this:

SIS AND BUD’S COMIC CAMP FOR HUMOR WRITERS

LAKE SILVER, in the lovely Catskill Mountains

Two day sessions, all inclusive

DAY ONE: PUT YOUR PENS DOWN AND PARTICIPATE

1. DON’T READ IT, SAY IT!
2. HOW TO MAKE JOKES TO PEOPLE WEARING HEARING AIDS
3. HOW TO START A JOKE: DON’T BEGIN WITH WHAT YOU HAD FOR BREAKFAST
4. HOW TO TALK ABOUT URINATION IN MIXED COMPANY
5. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU’RE FUNNY, ANYWAY?

DAY TWO, FOR ADVANCED JOKESTERS

1. LEARN TO DANCE LIKE ELLEN DEGENERIS
2. SELL IT WITH A LOOK
3. STOP WRITING THINGS DOWN!
4. IT’S BETTER IF YOU GET UP; THEY DON’T CALL IT STAND UP FOR NOTHING
5. TAKE MY WIFE, PLEASE

Sis and Bud, here I come.